Theory of Loss
by LovelyLivy
Summary: Suddenly, a shadow falls upon her expression, and she shudders, as if from a thought, eyes darting to his and holding him there in his seat. "Tony, are you considering suicide?" T/Z.


**A/N- So, first of all, THANK YOU to all who reviewed, favorited, or alerted this story. What I ended up doing was, with help from a trust beta by the name of LittleSammy, making this a little more wrapped up and able to be a one shot. Hope you enjoy! Feedback is appreciated! :)**

**-Alivia**

**Disclaimer: NCIS is not mine. Special thanks to: LittleSammy**

* * *

><p>She is there, waiting for him, at the bar. Her ebony curls tumble over her shoulder, recognizable, drawing him in, the moment he enters the establishment. He has the option of turning around, leaving, but he doesn't.<p>

He doesn't tell her he will be here. But he doesn't believe in coincidences, especially when it comes to Ziva.

She assumes his whereabouts, and is, apparently, right. _(She usually was, when it came to matters like this. His observant little ninja, she was.)_

Shifting on her stool when he sits next to her, her gaze burns his skin. Questioning. Prodding. Dangerous.

"You were not there for the last half of the interrogation," she murmurs, half question, half statement.

He refuses to answer her.

Tony clears his throat, motioning for the bartender. "Scotch, please. Dry."

Ziva gives a noise of recognition, a furrow creasing her brow. "You are depressed," she says, like it's a fact.

Maybe it is.

Maybe she knows him so well by now he doesn't have to make movie references, and he doesn't have to smile like everything is fine. The façade has gotten old for her, he can tell. _So why put it on?_

He doesn't want her pity. He doesn't want her to give him anything. Not comfort, not love. He owes her too much already.

"What do you do on the anniversary of your sister's death?" he questions, and the words hang like a torn thumbnail. He asks her this because maybe if she's mad at him, things will stick better. Maybe she'll leave him alone. Maybe she'll stay away.

He takes a gulp of the drink when it arrives; almost coughing at the trail it burns down his throat.

His eyes water; and turn a misty olive in the dim light of the room.

It takes her a long while to answer him. "Nothing, anymore," she says, shrugging a shoulder half-heartedly, taking a sip of her own beverage.

"Anymore?"

Ziva sighs quietly, the sound like leaves fluttering in the breeze of autumn. She sounds tired. "I would grow very angry, those first few years. I would go into violent rages, and destroy things, usually to spite my father. I once drove a car into a brick wall."

He remains quiet, despite her admission. He can tell it worries her immensely, as she shifts towards him, just a few inches, but close enough to run her fingers through his hair or kiss his forehead. "Tony, I-," she breaks off, and _no, no, he won't let her do this. He won't let her gain the upper hand (because then she might push it too far off the edge, and then he'll be gone, gone gone)._

"Ziva, when was the last time you visited Jenny's grave?"

As quickly as she had engaged him, she backs away, resting her elbow on the hardwood and leaning on it. She taps the side of her glass with her pointer finger, and looks around. The bar is nearly empty, it's so late. It's a Wednesday. Wetting her lips, she mutters an answer lowly, so lowly, in fact, he can't understand her. He has her right where he wants her.

"What?"

"I do not," she says, biting, louder, this time. Her eyes are dark and hard.

"Why?" he asks, giving it the inflection so as to create interest. Tony honestly doesn't care. But he likes watching her mouth as it gathers to a corner, her eyes narrowing in remembrance.

"Jen would not have wanted it. She believed in moving on, leaving the past behind you." Ziva chuckles, the sound coming from deep within her chest. "Jenny was a gun."

A smile, the first smile he's had all day, tugs at his lips. "Pistol, Ziva. And she was. Jenny was a pistol."

She tugs a lock of her hair behind her ear to get a better view of him, and to get a better handle on the conversation. It is nice to change things up, to give him the reigns. "Why do you ask such questions, Tony?"

His expression changes, and then it's quite clear, even if he hasn't said a word of _his _thoughts yet.

She _knows, _like she _knew _about the undercover assignment, like she _knew _about him sleeping with EJ.

She _knows _the _thoughts, _she knows the _look. _She had thought earlier that this look on his face was one she had never seen before, that this attitude of his was discombobulating. Yet until this second she hadn't realized why it was so familiar, and so foreign. Her pulse quickens at the groove of her neck as she thinks that she hadn't even thought _to ask if…_

It hadn't been at the forefront of her mind. She recognizes the look, but there are leaps and bounds between seeing it on her brother's face, and seeing it in her partner's kind eyes.

_Defeat._

And suddenly, she knows she has to ask. She has to ask, because taking the chance is too risky.

Tony is unawares to her realization, her assumption. He's studying her intently.

And suddenly, a shadow falls upon her expression, her form shuddering, as if from a thought, eyes darting to his and holding him there in his seat. She looks pissed, and frightened, and embarrassed all at the same time. Tony thinks that this is the most emotion he's seen from her this month.

"Tony, are you considering suicide?"

His breath catches in his throat, and he realizes he wants to be anywhere but here, having this conversation with _her_ of all people. The words are a steel vice that grips his throat.

The question is blunt, and it is so very wrong coming from those lips. It makes him feel small, and it makes him wish he'd never sat down in the bar to begin with.

Still, he owes her an explanation, at the very least. He owes her a lot.

"I wouldn't do that, Zeev," he mutters. "Thoughts are miles away from actions and that's not," he clears his throat, sitting up straighter in his seat. "That's not something I would ever do to you…guys."

He hadn't meant to let the last part slip out.

Both know he means _you. _

She lets go of a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "That is good to hear," she whispers, and looks away.

And then, "I know your mother committed suicide."

He knows she's trying to cover her tracks. He knows she's just trying to make it okay between them, and he's going to pretend her words do. It hits him like a freight train, the knowledge that she has a handle on him that well. He's been thinking he has her under control. He's been thinking he has _this, _whatever _this _is, under a close eye.

"I am sorry, Tony," she murmurs quietly, and turns her body closer to him for the second time tonight.

The mini Gibbs sitting on his right shoulder fights, refuses the comfort. _Rule twelve, St. Bernard. _

He has to give that feeble attempt at a back peddle, regardless of if it's virtually useless.

"Ziva, please don't break rules for me." The words are laced with sarcasm, but carry more meaning than either can muster. They come easily, and he's slipping back into the classic DiNozzo, the one with the façade, and the closet full of funnies.

She smirks rather humorlessly, taking another swill. Her eyes are the shade of dark honey. "What Gibbs doesn't know won't hurt us."

There's a peace that settles upon them for a few moments, an understanding. The bartender, a woman with skin that reminds Ziva of leather, approaches them, carrying another Scotch. Her smile is devilish.

"Hey you, the gal at the end of the bar bought this for you." Her twang is marred by hoarseness. The woman smells like a chain smoker.

Ziva glances over at the drink-buyer, weary at the sight of the blond hair, and the fake boobs. It's not that she's jealous. Jealousy would require the option for change_._

Tony is not her lover yet.

_No. Tony is just not her lover. _

Tony takes the offering, nodding in acknowledgement, throwing a sideways glance at the object of Ziva's frightening expression. "Ziva, don't bite her head off. I'm not taking her home."

It's actually a little offending to think Ziva would believe he'd take another woman home right in front of her. It's not a possibility.

The monstrous look is pointed his way. "I know that. It just makes me frustrated to see that although you and I are obviously together, that people can assume that-

She realizes her mistake immediately. "I mean, not that we are _together, _but we are engaged in a, a conversation, yes? And I cannot-

"Hey, _hey. _I know what you mean. Pay her no mind."

He stops for a moment, just to think about how _domestic _this feels. He's had women argue over him before, he's had two women agree to _share _him before, but until now he hasn't thought that way about Ziva. It hasn't crossed his mind, well, not _really, _that she's just as human.

If she were the hot, sexy agent on a spy show, he would say she is in love with him. But Ziva is Ziva, and he is inadequate. For her, at least.

But this does make him stop, and stare. This look of protectiveness, this vibe. _She cares, _EJ had said.

_She cares. _This is enough to snap him from his haze.

"I _was not," _she mutters, leaning closer. _Huh, he thinks._

_Or maybe she was._

The scent of her heavy and close, Tony takes the opportunity to swallow the last of what _he _bought, and stands. "Come on, we're leaving."

She arches a fine eyebrow, mouth going slack at the sudden disruption of everything, but stands as well. She had wanted to keep talking, not like she'd ever admit that.

"I guess I will see you at work tomorrow?" The words are uncertain in her mouth.

"No, you're coming back to my apartment."

Just like that. No _will you, _no _you might, _just a fact.

Kind of like _you are depressed, _and kind of like _she cares. _Statements.

Ziva's cheeks are warm, her ears tinged pink. "Am I? I did not realize you were making my decisions for me now," she murmurs quietly, playfully.

He has shrugged on his coat by now, and leans into the bar, throwing some cash at the woman that smells like smoke. "I'm not," he says simply.

And then he's gone, and his presence still lingers next to her. She pays as well, and then, for some reason she cannot care to reason _with_, she picks up the abandoned, full glass of Scotch, and strides towards the woman who had the nerve.

"This, I believe, is yours."

She cannot help the smile that graces her lips as she drapes her own sweater over her arm, setting off to her car, the knowledge that _she _will be with Tony DiNozzo tonight fresh in her mind.


End file.
